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"Oh, and another little change of plan: We're taking him with us as well." Basta pointed his knife

at Fenoglio. "So he can tell the boss his amazing stories. Very entertaining they are, too, believe

you me. And just in case he's hidden a book somewhere — well, we'll have plenty of time to ask

him about that once we get back. You keep your eye on the old man and I'll watch the girl."

Flatnose nodded and hauled Fenoglio up from his chair. But Basta reached for Meggie's arm.

Back to Capricorn — she had to bite her lips to stop herself from bursting into tears as Basta

dragged her to Fenoglio's kitchen door. No. Basta wouldn't see her weep, she wasn't going to

give him that satisfaction. At least they haven't got Mo, she thought. And suddenly there was

only one thought in her head: Suppose he crossed their path before they left the village?

Suppose he came to meet them on his way back with Elinor?

All at once she couldn't wait to get away, but Flatnose had paused in the doorway. "What about

the little girl and that crybaby in the cupboard?" he asked.

Pippo's sobs died away, and Fenoglio's face turned even whiter than Basta's shirt.

"Right, old man, what do you think I'm going to do with them?" asked Basta scornfully. "You say

you know all about me."

Fenoglio couldn't utter a word. Every cruel deed with which he had ever credited Basta was

probably going through his head. Basta relished the fear on his face for a few delicious minutes,

then he turned to Flatnose. "The other children stay behind," he said. "Our little madam here will

do."

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With difficulty, Fenoglio recovered his powers of speech. "Paula, go home!" he said as Flatnose

forced him down the hall. "Do you hear? Go home at once. Tell your mother I've gone away for a

few days, all right?"

"We'll just look in at that apartment again," Basta said as they were standing in the street

outside. "I forgot to leave a message for your father. I mean, he ought to know where you are,

don't you think?"

What kind of message will it be, thought Meggie, when you can scarcely write two letters

together? But of course she didn't say so out loud. She was terrified the whole time that Mo

might come to meet them. But when they reached the front door of the apartment there was

only an old lady walking down the street.

"One word out of you and I'll go back and wring both children's necks!" Basta whispered to

Fenoglio as the old lady slowed down.

"Hello, Rosalia," said Fenoglio huskily. "Guess what — I have new tenants for my apartment.

How about that, then?"

The suspicion vanished from Rosalia's face, and a moment later she had disappeared around a

corner of the street. Meggie opened the door, and for the second time let Basta and Flatnose into

the apartment where she and Mo had felt so safe.

In the hall she remembered the gray cat and looked around anxiously, but it was nowhere to be

seen. "The cat has to go out," she said when they were in the bedroom. "Or it'll starve to death.

That's unlucky."

Basta opened the window. "Right, it can get out now," he said.

Flatnose snorted scornfully, but this time he made no comment on Basta's superstitious nature.

"Can I take some clothes?" asked Meggie.

Flatnose just grunted, and Fenoglio looked unhappily down at himself. "I could do with a change

of clothes, too," he said, but no one took any notice. Basta was busy with his message. Carefully,

with the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he was gouging his name in the wood of the dresser

with his knife. BASTA. Mo would understand that only too well.

Meggie hastily stuffed a few things in her backpack. She kept on Mo's sweater. She was about to

put Elinor's two books in with the clothes but Basta knocked them out of her hand.

"Those stay here," he said.

Mo did not return in time to meet them as they walked to Basta's car. All that long, endless way,

he didn't appear.

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Chapter 31 – In The Hills

"Let him alone," said Merlin. "Perhaps he does not want to be friends with you until he

knows what you are like. With owls, it is never easy-come and easy-go."

– T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone

Dustfinger looked across to Capricorn's village. It seemed close enough to touch. Some of the

windows reflected the sky, and one of the Black Jackets was repairing a couple of broken tiles on

a roof. Dustfinger saw him wipe the sweat from his brow. The fools never took off their jackets

even in this heat — as if they were afraid of falling apart without that black uniform. Not that

crows take off their feathers in the sun either, and these men were just a flock of crows: robbers,

carrion-eaters who liked to plunge their sharp beaks into dead flesh.

The boy had been uneasy when he saw how close Dustfinger's chosen hiding place was to the

village, but Dustfinger had explained why there couldn't be anywhere safer to lie low among the

surrounding hills. The charred walls were hardly visible, camouflaged as they were by the

spurge, brambles, and wild thyme that had taken root among the soot-blackened stones.

Capricorn's men had set fire to the house soon after taking over the deserted village. The old

woman who had lived there had refused to leave, but Capricorn wouldn't tolerate prying eyes so

close to his new hideout and gave his followers free rein. His crows, his black vultures, had set

fire to the homemade chicken run and the one-room cottage. They had trampled over the

carefully tended beds in the garden and shot the donkey that was almost as old as its mistress.

They came under cover of darkness as usual, and the moon, so one of Capricorn's maidservants

had told Dustfinger, shone particularly brightly that night. The old woman had tottered out of

the house, weeping and screaming. Then she'd cursed them. She cursed them all, but her eyes

were turned on only one of them: Basta, who was standing a little way from the others because

he feared the fire, his shirt very white in the moonlight. Perhaps she had thought that shirt might

conceal something like innocence or a kind heart. At Basta's orders, Flatnose had put his hand

over her mouth to shut her up. The others had laughed — until, unexpectedly, she fell down

dead and lay there lifeless among her trampled garden beds. Ever since that day, Basta had

feared this place more than anywhere else in the hills. No, there could be nowhere better to keep

watch on Capricorn's village.

Dustfinger spent most of the time perched in one of the oaks that had once given the old woman

a shady place to sit outside her cottage. Its branches hid him from the curious eyes of anyone

who might stray up the hillside. He perched there motionless for hour upon hour, watching the

parking lot and the houses through his binoculars. He had told Farid to stay farther away, in the

hollow behind the house. The boy had reluctantly obeyed. He was sticking close to Dustfinger,

close as a burr, and he didn't like the gutted cottage. "Her ghost is still here, for sure," he kept

saying. "That old woman's ghost. Suppose she was a witch?" But Dustfinger just laughed at him.

There were no ghosts in this world, or if there were they never showed themselves. The hollow

was so well sheltered that he had even risked lighting a fire the previous night. The boy had

snared a rabbit; he was good at setting traps and more ruthless than Dustfinger. When

Dustfinger caught a rabbit he didn't take it out of the trap until he was quite sure the poor thing

had stopped wriggling. Farid had no such scruples. Perhaps he had gone hungry too often.

Above all he loved to watch with wonder and admiration whenever Dustfinger took a few little

sticks and lit a fire. The boy had already burnt his fingers playing games with matches. The

flames had bitten his nose and his lips, yet Dustfinger kept finding him making torches of cotton

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wool and thin twigs. Once he set light to the dry grass, and Dustfinger grabbed him and shook

him like a disobedient dog until tears came into his eyes. "Listen hard, because I'm not telling

you again! Fire is a dangerous creature!" he had shouted at Farid. "Fire is not your friend. It will

kill you if you don't respect it. And its smoke will give you away to your enemies!"

"But it'syour friend!" the boy had stammered defiantly.

"Nonsense! I'm not careless, that's all. I take note of the wind! You let it play with the fire. I've

told you a hundred times: Never light a fire when it's windy. Now go and look for Gwin."

"It is your friend, though!" the boy had muttered before running off. "Or anyway, it obeys you

better than the marten does."

He was right there, though that didn't mean much, for a marten obeys only itself, and even fire

didn't obey Dustfinger in this world as well as in his own, where the flames turned to flower

shapes whenever he told them to. They had forked up in the air for him, like trees branching in

the night, and rained down sparks. They had roared and whispered with their crackling voices,

they had danced when he said the word. The flames here were both tame and mutinous, strange,

silent beasts that sometimes bit the hand that fed them. Only occasionally, on cold nights when

there was nothing but the flames to stave off his loneliness, did he think he heard them calling to

him, but they whispered words he didn't understand.

However, the boy was probably right. Yes, fire was his friend, but it was also the reason why

Capricorn had summoned him back in that other life. "Show me how to play with fire!" he had

said when his men dragged Dustfinger before him, and Dustfinger had obeyed. He still regretted

teaching him so much, for Capricorn loved to give fire free rein, catching it again only when it

had eaten its fill of crops and stables, houses and anything that couldn't run fast enough.

"Is he still away?" Farid was leaning against the rough bark of the tree. The boy was as quiet as a

snake. Dustfinger always jumped when he appeared so suddenly.

"Yes," he said. "Luck's on our side." On the day they came to this hideout Capricorn's car had

been standing in the parking area, but that afternoon two of the boys had begun polishing its

silver paintwork until they could see their reflections in it, and shortly before it was dark he had

driven off. Capricorn often had himself driven around the countryside, to the villages farther

down the coast or to one of his other bases, as he liked to call them, although these so-called

bases were often little more than a hut in the woods with a couple of bored men guarding it. Like

Dustfinger, he couldn't drive a car, but some of his men had mastered the art of it. Hardly any of

them held a driver's license, though, because to pass the test they would have to be able to read.

"Yes, I'll go over there again tonight," murmured Dustfinger. "He won't be away much longer,

and Basta is sure to be back soon, too." Basta's car had not been in the lot at all since they'd

come here. It was unusual for it to be gone so long because Basta didn't like to be away from the

village for any length of time. Were he and Flatnose still lying in the ruined cottage, bound and

gagged?

"Good! When do we start?" Farid sounded as if he wanted to get moving at once. "After sunset?

They'll all be in the church eating then."

Dustfinger shooed a fly away from his binoculars. "I'm going alone. You're to stay here and keep

an eye on our things."

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"No!"

"Yes. This will be dangerous. There's someone I want to visit, and to do that I have to get into the

yard behind Capricorn's house."

The boy gazed at him with eyes full of astonishment—eyes that sometimes looked as if they had

seen too much already.

"Surprised, are you?" Dustfinger suppressed a smile. "You wouldn't have thought I had any

friends in Capricorn's house!"

The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked over to the village. A vehicle was driving into the

parking lot, a dusty truck with two goats tethered on the open loading platform.

"Look at that — another farmer's lost his goats!" muttered Dustfinger. "Wise of him to give them

up freely, or there'd have been a note pinned to his stable door this evening."

Farid looked at him, an unspoken question in his eyes.

"The red rooster crows tomorrow,that's what the note would say. It's the only thing Capricorn's

men know how to write. But sometimes they just hang a dead rooster above the door. Anyone

can understand that."

"Red rooster?" The boy shook his head. "Is it a curse or something?"

"No! Good heavens, you sound like Basta." Dustfinger laughed quietly. Capricorn's men were

getting out of the truck. The smaller of them was carrying two plastic bags filled to bursting; the

other was hauling the goats off the loading platform. "The red rooster means fire, the fire they'll

light in the farmer's outhouses or olive groves. And sometimes the rooster crows in the attic of